Think of You
by Zagury
Summary: I think of you whenever life gets me down. -Written to the song Think of You by A Fine Frenzy


*~AN: This song means something to me now. I hope you can find a way that it relates to you as well.~*

Could the world ever feel more enclosed than it did now?

I stand next to George Weasley, my hair pinned up in the most uncomfortable fashion. Our hands are clasped together, our rings gleaming in the faint glow of the lamplight. People drink at the bar, order firewhiskey and give toasts. We are the center of attention and I want nothing more than to leave.

George has just proposed to me. Everyone in the restaurant went into an uproar. It was quite frightening and I wanted to leave at that moment, too. I said yes, of course. How could I not? I do love him with all of my heart and he has given me more than I could ever wish to have.

Upon my answer, people ordered drinks they couldn't consume without stumbling around, spilling ice into a mistress' shirt or acting in the most idiotic of ways. Of course, they probably would remember nothing beyond the proposal in the morning, so none of this was of any great care to me.

So now, as we hold the other's hands, the room grows stiffer and stuffier, the walls feeling as though they are closing in. Because of my standard, I have no obligation to participate in the conversation George has started with one of the other customers here. I look around the room, feeling a little dazed but at least I'm conscious. I look at him instead of looking at all of the drunkards.

His hair is a little neat, I notice now. He wears his dragon hide jacket to add his Weasley touch, but he's wearing the dress robes I helped pick out just last week. If I had known it was for this I probably would have insisted we went to the Leaky Cauldron or the Three Broomsticks. Getting proposed to in a big, fancy, stuffy restaurant with big, fancy, stuffy people was not my ideal fantasy.

But he was George, so everything is okay.

He'd told me to dress nicely, so I did. I wore an elegant blue dress that stopped around my ankles and some comfortable shoes to make up for the uncomfortable hairstyle. I was not accustomed to having my hair off my neck. Any breeze that kissed it there felt inhuman and like a violation of the sorts. I didn't like it in the slightest.

But this was for George so everything was okay.

It's one hundred and nine degrees  
in this crowded room,  
no room to breathe  
with walls as cold as a gallery  
this is no place for me

I can't tell if all of the people here are wizards; they hide behind cigarette smoke and liquor. I don't enjoy that at all. I can't tell if they are looking at me or if they just examine the way my hair glitters in the light or the way my eyes seem to glaze over. I can't tell if they are really smiling or acting like I do, acting to please and pretending to behave.

I can smell that disgusting smoke in my dress, enveloping me like a veil. I hate it. Anything that disregards my original scent or George's is tantalizing and I have no endearment for it. The smoke curls into my throat and I fight back coughing. Even with the hatred I feel, I cannot be rude for George or I might as well leave. It would be of the same existence.

I can see it clearly in my mind. The smoke was the Slytherin serpent, wrapping around me while I tried to dance, squeezing me while I tried to laugh, suffocating me while I tried to breathe.

Despite his warm hand in mine, I do feel alone. There has always been that feeling in public places, places outside of the Burrow and my own home. It doesn't feel right to feel alone on the night I was proposed to, but I suppose that's how things turn out.

Such hard faces set in smoke,  
the smell lingers in my clothes,  
it's a bad night to be alone  
but that's the way it goes,

Even though I feel like an imposter—I've never had money and George always will—in this big, heated, fancy, stuffy place, I go along with things. It's not my specialty but I can try. Challenges to fit in have always been my forte because I usually don't fit in at all. It's the compromise of trying and failing that has always pushed me forward, ironically. I've always thought that if I keep trying, then one day I'll find my place somewhere. It's a strange thing.

I tried and failed to have friends other than her my first three years at Hogwarts. That didn't bother me. I tried and failed to battle the Carrows while they were at Hogwarts too, and that's why I was captured. Some people don't know, but I tried and fail to gain the affections of Ron Weasley in my fourth year.

I've tried and failed to fall out of love with Ginny Weasley.

She is always the thought I have in the most uncomfortable situations, the memory I keep with me for times like these. It's always the memory of her hair spread out beneath me, my fingers twirling in it that keeps me from leaving places like this. It's always the memory of her lips against mine, soft and fierce, twisting and speaking quietly to me that helps me through the most dangerous situations. It's always the sound of her voice that I imagine in my ear before I fall asleep.

"Things haven't changed. I still love you."

And I think of you,  
whenever life gets me down  
I think of you  
whenever you're not around  
you rest your bones  
somewhere far from my own,  
yeah but you still pull me home

The wedding comes and goes and George buys a new house. It's grand and wonderful. I'm so happy to have it, so assured that my life will be nothing less than extravagant. It overlooks a Muggle town with cobblestone roads and people with small hats. There are a few people that work in the fields that border the village, people that work in ragged clothes and have no care for their appearance. I envy their hard work and I envy their ignorance.

Our house is two stories high with a basement that collects below. George uses the basement as his workshop and he gave me a room upstairs to hold whatever I wanted in it. I use it as my editing room for the Quibbler, with posters of historic Wizarding events and I use it to host my memories. I keep photographs of my parents there, keep photographs of Dumbledore's Army, keep photographs of Ginny and I, Ginny and I, Ginny and I.

The garden is spectacular, with many butterflies and insects that come to visit my secret place. Flowers bloom and overtake. Birds make their nests. It's a peaceful place, but better yet, it's mine.

George keeps himself occupied in the basement for long periods of time, but he is always glad when I come to visit him. Today I surprise him with a kiss, a grope, a gasp. As I was planning, we end up on the workshop table, the contents spread out across the floor with me panting under him. He rests his head on my chest and my fingers weave into his red hair. And still, all I can think about is Ginny.

I thought I had it figured out  
in a brand new life  
with a great big house  
and green initials on the towels  
I should be happy now

We visit the Burrow often for dinner, for lunches, for family events or for the mere reason of visiting the Burrow. It's a simple want that George has had since the war ended, to be around his family all the time, to protect them, to love them, make sure they're breathing. It's a want that we share because Ginny is my family. If she dies, I die. I don't love if she doesn't love.

She comes with Harry and the tiniest swell to her belly, a ring gleaming on her finger as well. She had been my maid of honor at my wedding, and even though I don't expect the gesture in return, I still imagine us, standing side by side in beautiful dresses. It's a wonderful image and I never want it to disappear.

I hardly see Ginny if not at the Burrow, but once I saw her in the Muggle town. I was there, too, looking at all the Muggle things and picking out what would be an interesting knack to decorate the editing room. I saw her, looking at baby clothes and I watched her smile slightly, watched her hand rest on her stomach, watched her redo the loose bun her hair was in, watched her mouth cover her hands.

But she didn't see me.

Well, you've got yourself a family  
and you planted roots down by the sea  
I saw you once on the street,  
you didn't notice me

Years pass and I bear my first child, Fred. He's beautiful; he really is, with blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair. George looks at him like he's the very best thing on Earth, looks at him as though he's the only thing that keeps him alive anymore. He used to look that way at me, he did, and I used to look that way at him.

Things change.

Fred looks at me differently, looks at me with reverence and love. Without knowing me, he is mine and he is willing. I envy him. I always hold him close to my chest and wonder what it would be like if this was hers too, of he was hers too. Would we have had a girl, chosen to have children at all? She knew I didn't mind bearing children, but her body was built for it, just like her mother's. We discussed this that one year, when we were a secret, when our lives were nothing but whispered words and midnight comforts.

Our lives are different now. I edit, mark, cross out while she flies, twists, turns, cooks, cleans. Our lives are so different. I wish, I dream, I shag my husband on his workshop bench with quick and heated passion while she probably shags her husband in her bed, slowly, with a built passion that overworks. The passion that used to belong to me.

My fingers grip my pen harder.

But I think of you,  
whenever life gets me down  
I think of you  
whenever you're not around  
you rest your bones  
somewhere far from my own,  
yeah but you still pull me home

When Ginny is on her off-season, she has to take care of her children more often and it is then that I visit her. Our husbands are always at work when I pay her the much overdue and sometimes I have to refrain from taking advantage of that. I always have to refrain from taking advantage of that.

We chat and we drink tea, but we don't spend our afternoons like we used to. Of course, we both know that will never be an option again. It's when I'm in one of my moods, the ones she knows well, that she tells me about something other than Harry or Quidditch or the kids.

"I'm sorry, Luna." Her voice is soft and so are her eyes. "I love you, you know I do. I thought that we were going to … I thought we were going to have a future together. I thought Harry was dead then. I loved you both. I still love you both."

"It doesn't do either of us any use to say, 'what would have been.' You don't owe me an apology, Ginny."

"Things haven't changed. I still love you."

Just to put your mind at ease  
you don't owe me anything  
you paid me well in memories…

She is all I ever think about now. At night, she occupies my thoughts. When I edit, I find myself writing her name more than what I'm supposed to be writing. George knows, I'm sure of it, but he doesn't say anything. We'll be discussing it eventually, but he's such a good husband. He knows that I have to figure this damned thing out right now, with my red pen and with my memories.

I can still feel the velvet of her lips, still feel the ghost of her whisper. I can still recall the way she climbed into my bed, somehow managing to get past the Ravenclaw portrait, the way she cast a silencing charm over my four poster and the way she slid her nightgown off of her body and the way she slid off mine.

I can still feel her skin pressing hard against mine, can still feel her hips grinding against mine, can still feel her fingers knotted with my own. I can still feel her hot breath on my neck, can still feel my fingers probing in her warmth, can still feel her own in mine.

For the first time, I drop the red pen.

A tear falls with it.

My whisper drops on them both, "Things haven't changed.

"I still love you."

And I think of you,  
whenever life gets me down  
I think of you  
whenever you're not around  
you rest your bones  
somewhere far from my own,  
yeah but you still pull me home  
you still pull me home  
you still pull me home


End file.
